Poussette's, and this chronicle would be incomplete without a glance at
the future of the good-hearted couple. Poussette, who had never meant
any harm either in the case of Miss Clairville or Miss Cordova,
appeared to be considerably impressed by the events of a certain
winter, and after the arrival of Maisie and Jack treated them as his
own and gave up the idea of a divorce. The pranks and escapades of two
irresponsible, spoilt and active children kept him on the look-out a
good deal of his time, and before very long he had decided that
children after all were occasionally in the way, and like other good
things on this earth, best had in moderation. Still, he never failed
to treat them with all kindness, and towards their mother he remained
to the last, upon hearing her story of two cruel husbands, one of whom
might claim her any day, the very pattern of chivalrous honour. Who
shall pronounce the final word as to happiness--the quest of it, the
failure to find it, the rapture with which it sometimes announces
itself attained! This is no morbid tale, after all, although we may
have lingered at times over scenes neither pleasant nor cheerful, for
behold!--Mme. Poussette is happy, in her hospital: Dr. Renaud is happy
among his patients; Angeel is deliriously happy, with her crayons and
paper; all the Archambaults are happy; Maisie and Jack, Poussette and
Miss Cordova are all happy, happy in their rude health, with plenty of
good food, fun and excitement; even Father Rielle is happy, in his
work, having conquered his passion for Miss Clairville, and perhaps
when a few years have flown and her health is restored the dweller
against her will in the gloomy house of her fathers will emerge from
her torpor and engage in some active work that will afford her restless
spirit a measure of happiness. Often she cries in the dead of night:--

"Have I deserved this? Have I done wrong that I am punished like
this?" and she answers herself, saying: "Yes, I did wrong, although not
so wrong as others, and therefore am I punished." No other answer ever
occurs to her, and all she knows is that she must work out her fate as
best she can and try and be kinder to the child.

And Ringfield--is he happy, behind his high wall, listening for the
solemn bell, kneeling on the cold floor, sleeping on the hard bed,
working in the quiet garden? No one knows, for where he entered we do
not enter, and if we did we should not be able to disting